


This Life That I Have

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, During Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-30
Updated: 2006-09-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 03:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8695549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: How long has it been since he let Sam wander out of his sight, since he went out to pick up a girl? How long has he done nothing but hunt, and drive, and watch Sam?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

 Title: This Life That I Have  
Author: Kali  
Rating: NC-17  
Word count: 6239  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Summary: _How long has it been since he let Sam wander out of his sight, since he went out to pick up a girl? How long has he done nothing but hunt, and drive, and watch Sam?_  
Notes: For [ ](http://green-wing.livejournal.com/profile)[**green_wing**](http://green-wing.livejournal.com/) who gave me such a fantastic bunny that I spent way too long wrangling into a fic. Hope you like it. Feedback is loved.  
  
  
 _The life that I have  
Is all that I have  
And the life that I have  
Is yours  
  
The love that I have  
Of the life that I have  
Is yours and yours and yours.  
  
A sleep I shall have  
A rest I shall have  
Yet death will be but a pause  
For the peace of my years  
In the long green grass  
Will be yours and yours and yours_  
~Leo Marks  
  
Blood is drying on Dean’s face, thick and almost black in the dark. Sam glances at him, wonders if the cut on Dean’s head was worse than he thought. Dean’s skin is pale underneath the blood and dirt, skin stretched tight over his bones, eyes sunken and hollow. He hasn’t been sleeping much lately, if at all, and Sam wishes, not for the first time, that he’d fought harder to do this hunt alone. Dean isn’t in any condition to fight; the hunt last week had proved that.  
  
Sam sighs, looks back to the road, and jerks the wheel sharply when he realises he almost drove them right into a ditch. Dean slides to the side, collapsing as he goes so that he lands with his head in Sam’s lap. Sam puts one hand on his shoulder, holding him still while he tries to get them on the right side of the road. He licks his lips, taking deep, steady breaths to calm his pounding heart, and looks down at his brother.  
  
The blood is red this close, dark and rich, and he can see the dark smudges under Dean’s eyes from so many sleepless nights. Moving his hand to Dean’s face, he brushes his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone. A few flakes of blood peel away, revealing the surprisingly soft skin beneath. Dean is utterly still, completely dead to the world, and that just kicks Sam in the stomach because Dean is never that exhausted, would never allow such a girly touch.  
  
Sam winces, tries to push the guilt away, and uses his fingernails to scrape away a little of the blood. He can’t do much, but it’s something to occupy his mind until they cross the state line. And really, did Dean have to piss off the local law enforcement wherever they went? Sometimes it would be nice to not be run out of town.  
  
Laughing quietly to himself, Sam runs a hand through Dean’s hair, tugging at the short strands. He can’t help but admit that this is a nice opportunity-to be able to touch Dean freely, without being rejected. He doesn’t get many opportunities like that, especially seeing as Dean is very much in denial about their… history. Sam’s tried to broach the subject a few times, but Dean seems quite happy to believe that they don’t have several sloppy handjobs and inexpert kisses in their past.  
  
Trailing his fingers along Dean’s jaw, he rubs his thumb over Dean’s lips. Sometimes he thinks what he misses most is Dean’s kisses because seriously, his brother could win the gold in lip-locking.  
  
Shivering a little, Sam only absently watches the road, more focused on watching his hand as he strokes along Dean’s jaw, over his cheekbone, brushing over his eyebrow.  
  
A dark shape moves in the corner of his eye, a thick blur almost lost in the shadows of night, and he looks back to the road, cursing sharply and grabbing the wheel with both hands. He jerks the car to the side, swerving all over the place for a moment, and glares at the deer that is now standing oh-so-innocently by the side of the road.  
  
Breathing out heavily, Sam looks down at Dean, and is thankful to see that his brother is still asleep. He trails his fingers down Dean’s face, bumping over his nose and lips, before settling on his shoulder. His fingers knead the muscle, feeling the tension there even in sleep. He finds a hole in Dean’s shirt, slips his fingers inside to feel the warm skin.  
  
Dean still doesn’t react to his touch, not even when he presses his fingertips against a fading bruise from last week’s hunt. It’s the last of a long line of bruises Dean got from that hunt, smudged all over his chest and back. Sam sighs, remembers how sloppy Dean had been on that hunt as well. Too slow to react, to pull the trigger. The only time he’d moved quickly was when he’d pushed Sam out of the spirit’s way.  
  
Sam frowns, absently rubbing his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone. There is a thought, half-formed in his mind, trying to get his attention. He takes a deep breath, clearing his mind and focusing on his breathing, just like Dad taught him. Just breathe, don’t think, it’ll come to you.  
  
 _Something’s wrong._  
  
\---  
  
Sam honestly cannot believe how dense he can be sometimes. He can’t believe it took this long to notice that something was seriously wrong with his brother. He’s not even sure how long it’s been like this, at least a week. A week of Dean not sleeping, barely eating, getting thinner and weaker and all the while trying to pretend that everything’s okay. How long has it been since he let Sam wander out of his sight, since he went out to pick up a girl? How long has he done nothing but hunt, and drive, and watch Sam?  
  
Sighing, Sam drags a hand through his hair and tries to make sense of it all. Something was obviously wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what. What could possibly have sparked such a dramatic, and worrying, change in Dean? And, more importantly, how did he deal with it?  
  
He cocks his head so that he can see the bathroom door, open and letting steam waft into the room. Dean’s form is blurry behind the shower curtain, but Sam can see that he’s moving slowly, stiffly. Too little sleep, next to no relaxation at all.  
  
Sam watches as Dean turns off the water and steps out of the tub, grabbing a towel from the rack and wrapping it around his hips. Sam glances at the clock and thinks that Dean wasn't even in the shower for ten minutes, and this was a guy who usually spent up to an hour in the bathroom. Dean absently towels himself off, but Sam notices that he keeps looking at Sam, as if to reassure himself that he's still there.  
  
Walking out of the bathroom, Dean grabs his boxers and pulls them over his narrow hips. Sam doesn't even pretend that he's not watching, and for once Dean doesn't call him on it, just tosses the towel over his shoulder and reaches for his jeans.  
  
“You wanna go to a bar and get a drink?” Sam suggests suddenly, a hint of desperate hope in his voice belying his casual body language. Dean frowns, shifts uneasily as he buttons his jeans, and Sam bites back a sigh. Dean should be jumping at the chance to go out, right after he finished mocking Sam for actually suggesting it in the first place. This was just another thing that was different, wrong, about Dean lately.  
  
“I was thinkin’ of staying in, actually,” Dean mumbles as he pulls on a tee shirt, not meeting Sam’s eyes. “Thought about trying to find us our next gig.”  
  
Sam hesitates for only a second before sighing and shrugging. “Okay. I guess I’ll be drinking alone. I’ll be back late, probably.” He stands up and walks to the door, but not before he sees the flash of panic in Dean’s eyes.  
  
“No, wait, Sammy! I, uh, sure, why not?”  
  
Dean’s grin is weak, pathetic really, but Sam doesn’t comment, just shrugs again and steps outside.  
  
The nearest bar isn’t all that great, and plays the most annoying music Sam has ever heard, but there’s a steady supply of beer and that’s all that matters.  
  
Dean picks out a booth at the back of the bar and huddles in the corner, nursing drink after drink. He doesn’t even seem to notice the waitress flirting with him, just smiles weakly and sips his beer. Sam hopes the alcohol will help loosen Dean up a little, or at least remind him of how he’s supposed to act.  
  
“You don’t look like you’re having much fun,” Dean mutters, a hint of accusation in his voice, and Sam flinches a little.  
  
“I just… wanted to be here for a while. Be normal.” It’s a weak lie, and it shouldn’t work, but it does. Dean nods and stares at his bottle as if it holds all the answers.  
  
“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Sam says quietly, and Dean winces slightly. “I mean, I’m a big boy, I can spend an hour or so on my own.”  
  
“I’m happy here,” Dean mumbles, shifting uneasily in his seat. Sam bites his lip, not sure of his next step, before he sighs and gulps down the remains of his drink. He stands up, stretches, and looks down to see Dean watching him carefully.  
  
“I’m tired,” Sam states simply, and Dean just nods, puts his beer down and follows Sam out of the bar.  
  
\---  
  
“We should hit the sack,” Sam mutters, tugging his shirt over his head, and Dean freezes, whole body tensing and eyes going wide. He looks up at Sam, and shakes his head slightly. Sam huffs a heavy sigh when he realises that plying Dean with alcohol had not, as he hoped, relaxed his brother enough for sleep. Well, time for Plan B-the direct approach, which hopefully would be easier now that Dean had three beers in him. Dean might not relax when slightly buzzed, but he did tend to let things slip.  
  
“Alright, dude, what the fuck is going on?”  
  
Dean chews on his bottom lip, and Sam frowns, because that’s not a typical response.  
  
“You haven’t slept in more than a week,” Sam says softly, and Dean winces a little. “You're not eating and you jump and go for you're gun if a car backfires. You’re gonna run yourself flat into the ground if you don’t sleep soon.”  
  
“NO!”  
  
Sam takes a step back, surprised by the rage in Dean’s voice, and raises his hands in the universal sign of ‘no weapons’.  
  
“Dean,” he murmurs, watching, confused, as Dean whirls around and stumbles over to the door. He opens it, but doesn’t step outside, and after a moment, Sam walks over to him, puts his hands on Dean’s trembling shoulders.  
  
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he begs softly, and Dean shudders. He doesn’t fight when Sam slowly turns him around, tipping his chin up so that he can see his face. He’s surprised, more than surprised, to see a faint suspicion of tears in Dean’s eyes.  
  
“I have to… I can’t sleep, not if… you might…” Dean frowns, desperate and confused, and Sam raises one hand, cups Dean’s neck and brushes a thumb over his jaw.  
  
“It’s alright,” he murmurs, voice catching a little. “Just say it.”  
  
Dean blinks up at him, eyes glazed with a combination of alcohol and exhaustion. He looks almost childlike, expression heartbreaking in its innocent simplicity, and Sam forces back the urge to drag Dean into his arms and cuddle the hell out of him.  
  
“I have to protect you,” Dean mumbles brokenly, and Sam can’t stop himself. Before he knows it, he’s pulling Dean towards him, pressing their bodies together and wincing at the way Dean just shivers and clings to him. Dean’s loose and limp in his arms, too weak and exhausted to do much of anything, and Sam easily manoeuvres him to the bed.  
  
They collapse together, and Dean curls his hands in Sam’s shirt, bunching the already-wrinkled material in his fists, and wriggles as close as possible to Sam. Sam closes his eyes, runs a soothing hand up and down Dean’s spine, and tries to think of something to say, something to _do_. Because while he might be confused as fuck right now, he knows that he has to fix this somehow. He has to fix Dean.  
  
“It’s gonna be alright,” he murmurs uncertainly. “You just… need to sleep for a bit, Dean. You’re running on empty and sleep-deprivation really doesn’t agree with you. So just… just sleep, okay? I’m gonna be right here so you don’t have to worry. You don’t have to worry. It’s okay.”  
  
Dean mumbles something into Sam’s shoulder, the words muffled and unrecognisable, but Sam doesn’t ask him to repeat it. He just keeps talking, rambling, trying to break through Dean’s exhaustion-inspired defences. He’s not sure how long it takes, but he’s eventually aware of Dean’s breathing changing, slightly. He sighs softly, stares up at the ceiling, and wonders how he could possibly have let things get this serious.  
  
He knows that underneath his cocky grin, Dean hides a lot of issues and pain and that he’s got a completely fucked-up mentality when it comes to Sam, but he’d never thought that Dean would… become _this_. This empty, shell of a person, desperate to protect, terrified by failure, by the thought of losing the only person he had left.  
  
And how the hell can he overcome that? How can he convince Dean that he’s not gonna die if left unsupervised for an hour or two? First, obviously, he needed to get Dean thinking clearly again. Hopefully some sleep and a little less caffeine would do the trick. Then… well, then he was gonna force Dean to talk about this.  
  
Closing his eyes again, Sam let out a heavy breath and let himself fall asleep, arms wrapped tight around Dean’s too-thin body.  
  
\---  
  
When he wakes up, it’s dark. He shifts until he can see the clock on the nightstand, and huffs in surprise when he realises they slept through the entire day. Dean is still curled around him, breathing steadily, and Sam debates for a moment whether to wake him. He decides against it, because the more sleep Dean gets the better. Besides, it gives him time to plan his attack. Because he has no delusions that getting Dean to talk is gonna be one of the hardest things he’s ever done.  
  
Dean will try to run, try to hide, try to brush it all away and pretend nothing’s wrong. But Sam can’t let him, not this time, because this time something _is_ wrong, on a fundamental level, and if they don’t sort this out, it’s gonna kill them both.  
  
Sighing, Sam runs a hand down Dean’s spine before moving up to toy with his hair. He places a gentle kiss on the top of Dean’s head and slowly untangles himself, prepared to slip back at the merest hint of alertness from Dean. He manages to stand up without waking his brother, however, and quickly pulls on some new clothes. He takes the opportunity to strip his brother and pull the blankets over him, tucking him in like a child.  
  
He doesn’t really want to leave, not with Dean in such a… _vulnerable_ state, but walking always makes him think clearer and right now, he needs all the help he can get. He scribbles a note on a piece of paper, sticks it to the wall, and quietly slips out of the room.  
  
\---  
  
Dean wakes up slowly, reluctantly clawing his way to consciousness, and presses himself closer to Sam. Wait, no, not Sam. He jolts awake, a startled cry on his lips, and stares in confusion at the pillow next to him. He looks around, but Sam’s not in the room, or the bathroom, and he can’t see him anywhere.  
  
“Sammy!”  
  
He struggles to untangle himself from the blanket and staggers to his feet, scrambling for his clothes. He can’t remember undressing, but then, he can’t remember falling asleep either, so he figures Sam must have undressed him at some point.  
  
He’s got his jeans half-on when he suddenly freezes, memory rushing back with a sickening wave of self-disgust. Jesus Christ, he’d actually… _said_ that. To _Sammy_. What the fucking hell had possessed him to say those things? To admit to that?  
  
A half-memory, lost in the blurry confusion of the last few days, surfaces, and he half-hears Sam say something along the lines of sleep deprivation not agreeing with him. He laughs, dry and bitter, because yeah, that’s an understatement.  
  
Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, trying to sort out the jumble of half-lost memories in his head. He knows, with the clear, cold logic that he’s been missing lately, that what he did was stupid. He knows that it was stupid to not sleep, that Sam was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, that he’d risked both their lives by his little stunt.  
  
Trailing fingers over his scruffy jaw-he hasn’t trusted himself with a razor lately-he wonders why the move makes him shiver. He rubs his fingers over his lips, frowning, as fragments of memory flitter across his mind-Sam’s fingers on his jaw, on his neck, skittering over his cheekbones and smoothing over his eyebrows.  
  
For a long time, Dean can’t do anything but sit and blink at the wall as he lets himself remember.  
  
 _A rough jolt startled Dean awake, sharp and rude and he really didn’t want to be awake because right now, he was really really tired. He didn’t move, though, or even let on that he was awake. For the first few seconds, he was simply too tired and achy to move, but then, as Sam’s hand gentle wandered all over his face and neck, he simply didn’t want to. He liked the way Sam was touching him, soft and soothing. It was such an intimate moment, something Dean really wasn’t used to, and he fought the urge to lean into Sam’s touch. Couldn’t let him know he was awake, that he was enjoying this. He breathed out, slow and steady, and let himself sink into the gentle reassurance that Sam was still there, alive and safe and with him._  
  
Dean shakes his head, carefully tucking the memory away in the back of his mind, where he could pull it out and look at it. Pulling on his jeans, he tries to think of a way out of this mess. Sam’s going to want to talk. He always wants to talk, and Dean, well, he really doesn’t. He knows he did some stupid shit, that he let things spiral way out of control, and he’s not gonna deny that-at least, not much-but talking about it isn’t going to help.  
  
A key snicks into the lock of the door, a quiet noise that most people wouldn’t hear, but Dean’s on a hair trigger like never before, and he’s diving for his gun before he can think about it. He lands heavily on the floor, rolling onto his side and aiming his gun. He thumbs off the safety, breathing out slowly and glad that, despite everything, his hand is steady.  
  
The door creaks open, slow and quiet, and a sneaker-clad foot appears in the gap. Dean recognises it, but doesn’t relax until he sees Sam’s face, blinking at him in surprise and just a little hint of amusement. Sam raises an eyebrow, lips twitching in a way that means he’s holding back a grin.  
  
“You gonna shoot me?” he asks, and Dean snorts.  
  
“Not today I’m not,” Dean mutters, easing his finger off the trigger and sitting up. He’s got carpet burn in some really irritating places from his little stunt, and he winces as he stands up, flicking the safety back on his gun and tossing it on to the bed. He licks his lips, uncertain of his next move, and sneaks a glance at Sam, who’s watching him carefully. Dean really _hates_ that look, the one that says Sam is trying to peer into his mind and dig out all his secrets, lay him open for all the world to see.  
  
Dean steps back, puts a little more distance between them, and absently scratches a cut on his wrist. Sam frowns, small and almost not seen, and steps forward, reclaiming the distance Dean put between them.  
  
“How’re you feeling?”  
  
It really is surprising how much meaning Sam can cram into three and a half words. Dean chuckles dryly and waves a hand idly.  
  
“Bright eyed and bushy tailed,” he says, forcing his tone to be light and uncaring. “Guess I was overdue for a bit of beauty sleep. I was thinking that if there’s no reason to hang around, we should hit the road. I think I’ve got us a gig in Michigan.” Which is a blatant lie, because he hasn’t been in any sort of state to look for a job, but Sam shrugs and nods anyway.  
  
“Fine by me. Michigan’s as good a place as any to talk this out.”  
  
Fuck.  
  
\---  
  
To Sam’s surprise, Dean lets him drive them to Michigan. They’ve only been driving ten minutes when Dean falls asleep, sprawled in the seat and snoring softly. Sam plays some Def Leppard, quietly, just to fill up the silence. He doesn’t look at Dean if he can help it, because it just reminds him of the last time they were both in the car, and his fingers itch with the need to reach out and touch. He beats an absent pattern on the wheel instead, absently humming along to _Rock of Ages_.  
  
“I’m starved as fuck,” Dean announces, startling Sam, who had thought he was sound asleep. Dean opens his eyes, pops open the glove box and pulls out a packet of twinkies. He holds one out for Sam, shrugs when he gets an uninterested shrug in return, and eats three in quick succession.  
  
“You haven’t eaten a proper meal in a week,” Sam says, and Dean pauses in the act of licking his fingers. He swallows, licks his lips, and shrugs.  
  
“Haven’t had much of an appetite.”  
  
“Bullshit. You’re not gonna run from this, Dean. We’re gonna talk, you’re gonna explain, and then I’m going to try to not beat the crap out of you for being such an idiot.”  
  
“Sam, come on…”  
  
“No, Dean, I’m serious. You’re not getting out of this one.”  
  
Dean groans quietly and rubs at his eyes. he wonders if there is any chance Sam will let him get drunk beforehand because these things always go much better with copious amounts of alcohol.  
  
\---  
  
Dean sighs and twists his ring on his finger, a nervous habit he's never outgrown. He can feel Sam watching him and he shifts uncomfortably, stares at his hands and tries to pretend that he's alone.  
  
"I had a nightmare," he mutters, and his voice is rough with emotion. "It was.. one of those ones that mirror reality, you know? I saw... all the close calls we'd had- _you'd_ had. Only, in the dream, I didn't... I didn't save you. you died, so many times. Ripped apart by that werewolf in Colorado, heart torn out by that Woman in White, strangled by too many damn things to count." He licks his lips, Adam's apple bobbing as he struggles for control. "I just... I freaked out. I was so scared that you were gonna.... I had to watch you; protect you. I couldn't think of anything else."  
  
He blinks, hard and fast, and sneaks a glance at Sam. It only takes a split-second to see the pity in his brother's eyes, and he feels shame spike in his gut. He launches himself off the bed, strides into the kitchen. He leans against the counter, his back to Sam and his horrible pity.  
  
"So I was an idiot," he mutters, quiet enough that the shake in his voice is barely discernible. "Over-reacted a bit, big deal. Can we move on now?"  
  
He jumps when hands settle on his hips. Sam's breath is ticklish on the back of his neck and he can feel the solid warmth of Sam pressing against him. For just a second, he allows the touch, lets it soothe away the last few tendrils of fear and paranoia. But then he shakes his head and steps away, clearing his throat awkwardly. He rubs at his eyes, scratches his jaw, scrambles for something to say.  
  
"So, um, you hungry? Because I’m still starving so I might go out for food."  
  
"No."  
  
Good. Great. He needs time alone right now. He nods and scoops up his keys from the counter. "Okay, I'll be back, uh... later."  
  
Sam sighs in exasperation and grabs Dean's wrist as he moves past.  
  
"No, Dean. I meant, no, you're not leaving."  
  
Dean flinches, refuses to meet Sam's eyes. He tries to free his wrist, but it's a slow, unsure movement. Sam's thumb strokes over his pulse, soft and comforting.  
  
"I'm not gonna die on you," he murmurs, and Dean winces again. He clenches his fist, but doesn't move away when Sam's other hand moves to settle between his shoulder blades.  
  
"You have to stop worrying about me. I'm not gonna leave you."  
  
"But you did!" Dean hates the pathetic whine in his voice, but he can't stop himself. He finally raises his head to look at Sam, and his eyes are half-angry and half-scared.  
  
"You left, Sam." His voice is steadier now, shaking with anger and not fear. "You left me and you went away and I couldn't protect you anymore. And you're gonna-you're gonna leave again, I know you are!"  
  
It's Sam's turn to flinch, and he looks away for a second, before taking a deep breath and staring hard into Dean's desperate eyes.  
  
"I won't leave you again," he says firmly. "Not if it's gonna... _break_ you like this."  
  
Dean frowns uncertainly, tries to find a hint of deceit in Sam's expression and not quite daring to believe it when he fails. He shivers when Sam strokes a thumb over his cheekbone, cupping his cheek. His breath is coming in quick, short gasps, and he tries to calm down, but he can't. All of a sudden, he feels like he's made of glass and will shatter any second. He's vaguely aware that he's trembling, but all he can feel is Sam's hand on his cheek and Sam's breath on his skin and _samsamsam_.  
  
"It's gonna be alright," Sam promises in a whisper. He leans forward, eyes drifting closed, and the next thing Dean knows, they're kissing, and it's soft and warm and Dean never wants it to stop. But a distant part of his mind snaps together, screams at him that this is sick and wrong and shouldn't happen, and he pulls away, stumbling backwards.  
  
"No," he chokes out, licking his lips and tasting Sam. "No, Sammy, we can't."  
  
A frown flits across Sam's features, stubborn and annoyed. "Why not?"  
  
"It's wrong. Don't you get that, Sammy? It's so fucking _wrong_."  
  
Sam shakes his head, steps forward into Dean's personal space again. "I don't care. We need this. _You_ need this."  
  
Dean shakes his head, doesn't know how to convince Sam that this just can't happen. Sam's hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him forward for another kiss, and that small, distant part of Dean's mind thinks that that's unfair, that's fighting dirty. He makes a soft, half-pained sound in the back of his throat, and lets his hands rest on Sam's chest. He can feel Sam's heartbeat under his fingers and it is absurdly comforting.  
  
Sam strokes a hand down his neck, stopping only when he encounters the collar of his shirt. He fists his hands in Dean's shirt and steps back, pulling Dean with him. Dean stumbles, unsteady and just a little dazed. Sam smiles, all soft and tender, and brushes his lips against Dean's temple before turning him around and pushing him down on the bed.  
  
Dean looks up at him, unsure and on the verge of protest, but Sam trails his fingertips down Dean's face, and he leans into the touch. Sam's hands push his shirt off his shoulders, and the cuffs tangle around his wrists. Sam chuckles and pulls it free, tossing it over his shoulder. Dean would protest at this, at Sam undressing him like he's a fucking child, but Sam's hands are warm on his skin, running over his arms and neck, and he can't find the right words because it just feels so _right_.  
  
Sam smiles, licks his lips as he pulls Dean's tee shirt over his head. His breath goes out in a quick, sharp gust and Dean flinches, not sure of that reaction. For a second, he's actually paranoid about his body, and that is just so ridiculous that his mind kicks into gear just a little and he cocks his head in challenge, one eyebrow raised. Sam grins, bright and almost predatory, and drops to his knees. He runs his tongue along Dean's collarbone, nipping lightly at the skin, before moving lower. He circles one of Dean's nipples for a second before dragging his tongue over the small pebble of flesh. Dean gasps, arches his back, and tangles one hand in Sam's hair.  
  
He damn near jumps out of his skin when Sam's hand, heavy and warm, lands in his lap, pressing in slightly. His moan is strangled and barely-heard, but Sam still laughs quietly in response.  
  
"Just relax," he whispers into Dean's ear, tongue flicking out to for a quick taste. "I know just how you like it."  
  
And he does, Dean thinks dizzily as Sam unzips his jeans and pushes his boxers down. All the time apart, the years of not touching, of pretending to not remember, and Sam hasn't forgotten a damn thing. He still knows what makes Dean scream.  
  
Dean lets himself fall backwards, stares at the ceiling as Sam tugs his jeans and boxers down to his knees. The rush of cool air on his cock makes him shiver, and the action is only intensified when Sam strokes it lightly with his fingertips.  
  
He feels the mattress dip and opens his eyes to watch Sam settle down beside him, still running his fingers along Dean's cock, an almost absent-minded gesture. Sam smiles and bows his head to lick at his neck, tracing the tendon. His thumb brushes over the head of Dean's cock, spreading the pre-come around. Dean gasps, arches his back, and Sam chuckles quietly.  
  
"You look so gorgeous like this," he whispers, twisting his hand slightly, just the way Dean likes it. Dean moans, eyes fluttering closed again, and thinks that Sam really does fight dirty sometimes because he can't possibly thing up a protest to the sappy words when he does things like that. He bucks his hips, thrusting upwards into Sam's tight fist, and Sam's thumb swipes over the head again.  
  
He feels Sam's breath on his neck, a second before his tongue is there, tracing random patterns just behind his ear. He thinks he's speaking, because there are these little noises that he recognises as his voice, but he doesn't have a clue what he's saying and honestly couldn't care less.  
  
Dean raises one hand, intends to do pull Sam in for another kiss, but then Sam does something with his hand, a twist or pull or something, and he just gasps, clutching at his brother's bicep and knowing he's gonna leave bruises. He groans, pictures Sam walking around with blue-black fingerprints on his skin, and that's it, he can't hold on any more. He thinks he screams as he comes, but can't remember anything other than the blood rushing in his ears and Sam's hand on his dick and his mouth on his neck.  
  
He opens his eyes, blinks as he tries to focus, and moans quietly when he sees Sam carefully licking his fingers clean. Sam smiles at him and sucks hard on his index finger. And that is just really really dirty fighting, and Dean growls, reaching up lazily to grab at Sam's neck and pulling him down for a kiss. He tastes himself on Sam's tongue, bitter and salty, and it just makes him moan again. Sam really will be the end of him one of these days, he thinks blearily. But damn, it'll be a hell of a way to go.  
  
Dean smiles against Sam's mouth, biting sharply on his bottom lip before drawing back. He moves to wriggle out of his jeans and boxers, and catches sight of the bulge in Sam's own jeans. He raises an eyebrow, and Sam flushes slightly.  
  
"It's not important," he mumbles, shifting in a vain attempt to hide, and Dean snorts.  
  
"Bullshit." He shimmies out of his jeans and boxers, tossing them on to the floor, and tugs Sam up onto the bed, pushing him down. Sam looks at him, uncertainty shading his features.  
  
"Dean, this isn't about-"  
  
"You want to convince me that you're not gonna leave?" His voice is sharp and abrupt, no hint of the way his stomach flips a little. Sam bites his lip and nods, and Dean grins, quick and bright.  
  
"Then let me do this." He bows his head, lips dragging against Sam's jaw as he whispers in his ear. "Because I want to taste you, baby brother. I want to make you scream and make it so damn good you'll never think of going anywhere ever again."  
  
"Jesus Christ," Sam breathes, letting his head fall back on the pillow. His hands clutch at the sheets, and he squirms as Dean quickly pulls off his jeans and boxers. He's still wearing his tee shirt and socks, and that makes it feel oddly surreal, a fantasy that will shatter any moment.  
  
Dean's hands trace the sharp edges of his hipbones, feathering over the crease of his thigh. Light, teasing, just enough to keep him wanting more. Sam's hips shift, try to press upwards, and Dean puts the lightest of pressure into his touch, just enough to tell him to stay still. He waits for a heartbeat or two to make sure Sam's gonna listen, before smiling to himself. His tongue darts out, licks at the head of Sam's cock, and even that small movement has Sam gasping and swearing. Dean smiles again. This is gonna be so good.  
  
Licking his lips, he closes his eyes and takes the head of Sam's cock in his mouth. Sam groans something, a rough, guttural sound that might have been his name. Dean flicks his tongue out, running it over the vein on the underside of Sam's cock, and Sam moans.  
  
It's been a while since Dean did this, but it's like riding a bicycle, and he relaxes his throat, breathes out through his nose, and takes Sam in deeper. His cock feels heavy and warm on his tongue, bumping against the roof of his mouth, and damn, he'd forgotten how much he loves this.  
  
Dean moves one hand down, to cup Sam's balls, and Sam cries out, bucking his hips. Dean pulls back sharply, gagging a little, but runs his other hand over Sam's hip, silencing Sam before he can begin to apologise. Sam raises his head, looks down at him through his bangs, and Dean can see the question in his eyes as he sucks his index finger into his mouth. He's not really sure about this, it's way beyond anything they've done in the past, but he wants to give Sam something no one else has. He wants to lay claim, say that this, right here, it's theirs, exclusivly and forever. He wants to say that it was him, he was the first one who ever did this.  
  
"Trust me," Dean whispers with a smile, and Sam nods. Dean lowers his head again, takes Sam back into his mouth. He waits for Sam to relax, for another shuddering moan, before sliding his hand down and under, searching carefully. He finds Sam's hole and circles it with his finger, laughing in the back of his throat when Sam let's out a string of tight curses. He wants to say something, reassure Sam maybe, but doesn't want to let Sam's cock out of his mouth, so he settles for running his free hand over Sam's abs.  
  
He waits another moment, letting Sam get used to the touch, before sliding his finger inside a little. Sam shouts his name, hips rearing off the bed, but Dean’s ready for it this time and moves with him. He can feel Sam trembling, is peripherally away of the tight grip Sam’s got on the sheets, and he crooks his finger slightly, his knuckle brushing against the tight ring of muscle.  
  
Sam doesn’t need anything else to push him over the edge, and Dean might make fun of him for that later on, but for now he just moans and swallows his brother’s seed. He pulls back, licks the last few drops from the tip of Sam’s cock, and smiles up at his brother.  
  
Sam looks drugged, skin covered in sweat and staring up at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. He looks damned gorgeous and Dean can’t resist crawling up the bed to kiss him. He doesn’t get much of a response, which he takes to mean he did a damn good job, and lets himself fall down next to Sam. He runs one hand up and down Sam's back in a lazy, contented gesture, and Sam shivers, hooking one leg over his and shifting as close as possible. Dean smiles, but can't resist poking at the peaceful mood.  
  
"You know, this bed is way too small for both of us to sleep comfortably."  
  
Sam makes a soft 'hmm' sound in the back of his throat, and drops a kiss on his collarbone. "Don't care. Stay."  
  
Dean stares up at the ceiling, hand idly sweeping over the knobly points of Sam's spine, and nods to himself.  
  
"Yeah. Okay."  
 


End file.
